Nonetheless, the colonies and post-Revolutionary War period in America included basic mortgage loans. Eventually, in the 1900s, these loans grew in popularity and necessity. Homes, condos, and bare land was more expensive and unaffordable for the working classes. Increasingly, people needed financial support to invest in real estate — to find shelter.

Thankfully, banks were available to help everyone out. Without financial institutions and their mortgages, it’s unclear what would’ve happened. In today’s economy and real estate market, most people are unable to afford a house without credit. On the surface, it seems that many Americans would be homeless or forced to forever rent — unable to own. We’re forced to choose mortgages without a substantial alternative.

But let’s hypothesize for a moment. What would happen if mortgages suddenly disappeared? What if they weren’t an option for the impoverished, working classes, or even middle classes of America? What if banks were unable to write even one more loan?

For starters, it’s likely the entire real estate market would collapse. The decimation of domestic markets would domino throughout the world, and cause an economic meltdown. People would be unable to eat, shop, or pay for their continued existence. Landowners would quickly benefit from skyrocketing rental prices, but huge swaths of population would be forced to seek shelter elsewhere. The working classes would need to leave en masse from cities.

The end of mortgages would spell destruction and terror for the financial institutions that profit from their existence. Banks — big and small — would go belly up. Insurance companies would cease to exist. And a slew of related industries would (i.e., from appraisers to real estate agencies to utility companies) struggle to continue. The stock market would follow the steep declines elsewhere as the economic engine would slow to a halt. Money would be stuck. Over time, trillions of dollars would disappear — poof! — from the world markets. They wouldn’t return, either.

My, how powerful a few documents can be! Imagine how one contract prevents global catastrophe — end times. Moreover, that this agreement separates people behind walls — street and shelter.

Mortgage loans make little sense, though. The continued propping up of home prices through financial instruments ensures working classes spend the rest of their lives working. Renting isn’t much better either. With little incentive to build affordable housing for working classes, builders have increasingly constructed luxury condos for upper middle classes and beyond. A recent Yahoo Finance article highlights this shift:

“…a growing number of Americans must spend more than 30 percent of their income on rent — a level that the government considers financially burdensome. Over the past decade, that number has jumped from 14.8 million to 21.3 million, or 49 percent of all renters.

“A surge in apartment construction has done little to help address this problem because in many metro areas, a large proportion of new apartments are concentrated at higher-income levels. The median rent on a newly built apartment was $1,372 a month in 2014, about $500 more a month than what about half of renters could afford without being financially burdened.”

This story exemplifies the catch-22 for working classes: either fork over astronomical, burdensome amounts in rent or “purchase” a home through mortgage loans. Either way, banks and other financial institutions are complicit in the bubble. They own your future. Unless you’re independently wealthy, you lose.

Increased access to capital through mortgage loans encourages people to buy bigger homes than need at prices they can’t afford. Homebuilders respond by building bigger homes and charge more for new developments. Families and households buy more to fill bigger homes, as well. The cycle is vicious, expensive, motivated by consumption, and facilitated by an endless supply of cheap money via the Federal Reserve. It’s the antithesis of minimalism, frugality, and simple living, but we have little choice than to participate.

As the story continues, wholesale gentrification of vulnerable communities can occur. Those with poor credit and/or unable to make down or monthly payments must vacate. To refuse the paradigm means leaving good neighborhoods and schools. Home prices are propped and buoyed by the continued investments of the masses. Banks encourage people to spend more than they can afford on spaces larger than they need. And all I can think is, “Who were these mortgages meant to benefit?”

A mortgage is less a contract with your bank, and more a contract with your employer. To take out a 30-year mortgage loan is a financial conscription to work. It’s a benefit to your employer and guarantee for decades. You can’t stop working, as the consequence would be disastrous. Mortgage loans are the perfect economic engine for the wealthiest of our economy. They can make vast sums from borrowers and sit back to watch their money multiply.

Sadly, we’ve accepted these rules. We’ve cozied up to banks and pledged to pay them back for half our remaining lives.We’ve played the game by repeatedly checking FICO scores. We’ve shown them our good credit (when possible) as examples of personal responsibility, when it says nothing of systemic bias, racism, and uncontrolled job loss.

We are left with few choices. I dream of resisting the system and regularly think about living in a van or tiny home, but I’m afraid my partner and family wouldn’t care for this reality.

As a future psychologist, I’ll be lucky to make $65,000 to $75,000 to start out, which would necessitate participation in the mortgage loan game. And this says nothing of the student loan debt that would be necessary to pay off six years of doctoral education.

No house could be purchased outright unless I worked for decades and lived in a passenger van in the meantime. Yet, one of the most fundamental psychological needs is shelter. Without it, we cannot talk about saving money, cooking at home, or living well. People need the safety of shelter, but over the centuries, our homes have ballooned in price and size. Our inflated budgets have been decimated by a simple financial tool that we accept as a necessity for existence.

Nobody seems to bat an eye. Nobody says this is senseless. Nobody resists the status quo. Rent or “buy,” the same trap is set.

So, as preposterous and provocative as it might sound, what if we killed mortgage loans?

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My grandfather, Pop, passed away on Christmas Eve. Over the last couple years, he had steadily declined. His short-term memory had completely disintegrated. Pop couldn’t remember the last time we had talked, but his intelligence and spirit remained till the end.

I last spoke with him a couple weeks ago. We talked about who he’d be voting for — Bernie Sanders — and how his favorite stocks were performing. After I asked these questions, I silently cried on the phone. I realized he’d likely not make another election cycle. He was all out of votes after 92 years of life.

Pop and I spent most times talking about politics, economics, and relationships. I shared countless moments across from him in his reading nook. He sat on a donut pillow for hemorrhoids; although, he didn’t have them anymore. His mug sat on a hot plate and was covered with a small plate. He savoured and sipped every ounce of tea or coffee. It was here that learning was done.

He was the single largest impact on my economic and social beliefs. I read Marx after he extolled the virtues of communism. I didn’t necessarily agree with it all, but that wasn’t what was important. In discourse, he gave me the tools to debate politely and disagree adamantly. And he opened my eyes to prejudice, social justice, and financial inequities.

At 17, he enlisted in the Army Air Corps (precursor to the Air Force) and flew some 30+ missions over France and Germany. As a Jew, he received maltreatment from those he served and fought. It wasn’t easy service. He shared experiences talking with broken Yiddish (an old, Germanic language) to German prisoners of war. Pop wanted to learn about them. This was a perfect example of his social respect for others — no matter how “bad” they were.

Later in life, he made a friend who worked for a biopharmaceutical company who recommended Biogen Idec. After contemplating the scientific merits of the company and their products, he made an investment. It paid many times over for the last couple decades. Pop wasn’t a financial genius, but he consistently made smart decisions that put his family and future first. It allowed him to retire to a small apartment complex and enjoy the smell of fresh Santa Monica air.

Years and years of conversations with him cemented an emphasis for economic and social justice in me. As a child of the Great Depression, his perspective was forever changed. In current society, Pop didn’t like that vast amounts of wealth were being siphoned from the majority of people. He disliked that politicians weren’t doing enough to protect the average, everyday American. Taxes were a social good — it prevented a select group from pillaging from others in need.

I silently said goodbye to him in summer 2015, when I visited. But he would live a few more months before passing. Frankly, it’s hard to capture him in a list of “10 financial lessons from my grandfather,” but as one of the biggest influences on my life, I couldn’t help but say a few words to honor him.

Pop, thank you for editing my first journalistic endeavors, hugging me so tightly, brilliant financial lessons, giving the best stock-picking advice, tutoring me on Jewish culture and the Yiddish language, always having Manischewitz matzos, providing a near-endless list of dessert options after dinner, sharing the joy of Bangaleri birds, educating me on Freud and Marx, encouraging my academic endeavors when I struggled to see the light, and being proud of me. I knew you meant it, and I’ll miss your excitement on the phone after I’d say, “Hey Pop! It’s Sam.”

You’ve given me a debt of gratitude that I’ll forever try to pay forward.

As we always said, it’s time to say “chachalakas.” I hate that it’s time, but we must.

Only 80 people

Unlike the myth of “job creators” and “hard work,” these 80 people can never match the productivity and ingenuity of 3.5 billion. Unfortunately, the system of global income and wealth inequality doesn’t allow for more social distribution.

We need a Robin Hood

There’s a legendary hero who attempted to change these economic circumstances: Robin Hood. Whether man or myth, he was a rebel. The character is famous for taking from the rich to give to the poor.

He forcefully redistributed wealth through illegal, anarchic action in a folklore landscape that was divided and unequal. Simply put, he noticed injustices and took individual action to change the system of wealth inequality.

His major proposal is a global net worth tax to reassert some amount of economic equality (among other suggestions). In a way, this could be a heroic Robin Hood-like effort to help the planet’s people — not just a select few.

A global net worth tax might not be possible. Too many countries, wealthy people, and corrupt states would prevent it from happening. But there’s something else that’s growing in popular support: the Robin Hood tax.

The Robin Hood Tax could work

This cleverly named tax is supported by around over 350 economists and 50 charities including Greenpeace, Christian Aid, Comic Relief, Oxfam, One, Save the Children, The Salvation Army, and Unicef. Ultimately, this tax would be levied on banking and financial transactions that are traditionally made by the wealthiest 1%: those in the financial industry.

Potentially, taxes on financial instruments and industry in general could raise billions of dollars in revenue. The “Financial Transaction Tax (FFT)” at the heart of the Robin Hood tax could raise about 380 billion dollars per year.

These taxes would be sorely received by the wealthiest classes, but it would create a base and middle class for the majority. This could change lives.

Now, we just need to find a politician that’ll put on some green tights.

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Hope you enjoy this little tour of my old apartment!
(Warning: sarcasm ahead.)

Over the last 7 days I’ve been moving boxes, furniture, and settling into a new abode. I have a terrific roommate and some good friends with me — all in the same complex. We’re one big, amalgamated family. It feels wonderful to be around and supported and having fun with such great people.

But there’s a foreignness to my new residence. Every time I walk into the brand new apartment (for me and the area), it feels opulent and grand. It’s like I’m a little ant, looking up at the big blue sky — captivated and scared by the scale.

My home has wood floors and a stone-tiled bathroom, which reminds me of a hotel room. There’s fresh, soft carpet in the bedroom to greet me in the mornings. Central air and heating insulates me from the inevitable weather extremes of Iowa. A community center features a fitness room, laundry facilities, and regular staff.

As my friends know (and certainly some of my readers), I’m quite class conscious. When I see inequality and/or inequity, I can’t help but comment and try to change it. This new apartment, full of accoutrements and amenities is a reminder of my privilege. And with that, I feel deeply mixed.

The previous couple years were spent in a batcave-like apartment, which was comically awful. I lived 20 feet from an active railroad, 40 feet from a lurking cell tower, and my views were of a crater-filled parking lot. Despite its misgivings, I felt at home; at times, proud of it. I just never wanted to be above it all — separated too greatly from how many live.

Physical separation from more humble surroundings scares me. I worry that if I move to far from poverty, lower incomes, and more modest livelihoods, I could get swept up in craving endlessly. Perhaps more importantly, that this distance may come at the cost of being able to empathize with those who struggle economically — that I wouldn’t be as inclined to give back.

And now, I feel like I’m in a gated community. The demographics have shifted, as families departed as they couldn’t afford the new residences. The multiculturalism that once filled my old neighborhood has significantly changed. It’s evidenced in the growing number of white people and shiny cars.

I’ve joined the economically privileged, and I’m still wrapping my mind around the shift. I feel both honored to have this place, and unsettled by the way privilege begets privilege — a burdensome path and procession of more, greater, bigger, and taller. It feels paradoxical, as there’s great happiness here for my friends and I, and yet the discrepancy between the haves and the have nots has never been greater.